Even in this cold weather, he was dripping. His hair fell in damp locks over his brow, and his cheek was smudged where he’d wiped away sweat with a grimy gauntlet.
His was the face of a champion, brave and noble and steadfast.
A face that demanded respect and admiration.
A face Jenefer had grown to love.
Swallowing back maudlin tears, she hefted up her weapon again and strode to the archery field. Once she had a drawn bow in her hands and began hitting bull’s-eyes, she was sure she’d forget all about the laird she couldn’t have.
Davey Campbell advanced on Morgan, pressing him back against the wattle fence. Their blades ground together, making sparks. Morgan gave him a hard shove with his targe, and Davey retreated a step.
“Aim!” Morgan suddenly heard from the archery field. He blinked. Jenefer. Her voice was unmistakable.
In that instant of inattention, Davey almost lopped off his sword arm at the shoulder.
“Draw!” Jenefer cried.
Annoyed at himself for his slip, Morgan lunged forward with a vengeance, forcing Davey back with successive slashes of his claymore until the lad tumbled back into the dust.
“Loose!” she called out.
Out of the corner of his eye, Morgan saw a volley of arrows arc toward the target.
“Not bad,” she told the archers. “But you can do better.”
Realizing Davey was still lying in the dirt, Morgan dropped his targe and extended his hand to help him up.
“Good sparrin’,” he mumbled, distracted by the activity in the adjoining field. “Carry on.”
While his men continued to do battle, he leaned against the fence, removing his gauntlets, to watch Jenefer work.
She was a dedicated instructor. Patient. Observant. Generous with her praise, yet unforgiving of flaws. Under her direction, his men thrived, improving with each subsequent shot.
He wished he could do as Bethac suggested and keep her as his archery master.
But she was a warrior and might be a laird in her own right one day, with a husband and a clan and children of her own. She could have no interest in becoming his hireling.
Besides, he thought, as he watched her demonstrate a shot at close distance—swiftly drawing back the bowstring and firing in one direct, forceful movement—he wasn’t sure he could endure living in such close quarters with the beautiful, tempting warrior lass.
His jaw clenched with frustration, and his heart ached with regret. If only things had worked out differently… If only Alicia hadn’t returned from the grave…
He knew it was a wish that bordered on blasphemy. And yet he couldn’t help but imagine how much better all their lives would be if she’d only stayed dead.
As if God had heard his wicked thought, a bolt of lightning streaked across the heavens, followed shortly by thunder. Rain began to pelt the earth.
His men quickly gathered their weapons and headed for the armory.
Jenefer sent the archers off with their bows and quivers, then went to collect their arrows from the target.
As the rain started to fall in earnest, everyone scattered for shelter until only he and Jenefer were left, standing in the downpour.
When she turned and saw him, her face was bleak. The fire in her eyes was dimmed by sorrow, and the rain seemed to make tears upon her cheek.
He too felt as if the raindrops made a mockery of his anguish, drenching him with wet misery to match his mood.
They continued to stare at each other, careless of the drowning deluge. A jagged bolt of light speared the black clouds, and neither of them flinched. Thunder crashed over their heads, and they stood their ground in brazen defiance.
It was as if they both knew they could be struck by lightning at any instant. Yet it was worth the risk to stand here, sharing this rare moment.
The rain increased until it pounded the sod, pinging off his plate armor and making a halo of mist around her. And still they stood, two souls lost in a maelstrom not of their own making.
They were kindred spirits, he realized, warriors, children of the storm. Born in battle. Tempered by fire. Hardened by misfortune.
They wouldn’t let a mere storm defeat them. And he’d be damned if he’d let anything stand in the way of their love.
When they came together, it was in a collision as dramatic as the thunder clapping above them. Heedless of who might witness their perfidy, they dropped everything and rushed forward, meeting across the wattle fence.
He buried his face in her hair.
She seized his cotun in her fists.
When she turned her face up to his, her eyes burned with a fire that defied the drenching downpour. She lowered her gaze to his mouth and, without uttering a word, demanded he quench her thirst.
It was wrong.
He knew it was wrong.
He was married.
His loyalty belonged to another.
And yet, when Jenefer looked at him like that—as if there were no other man in the world—he could no more resist her than he could resist breathing.
With a groan of defeat, he slanted his mouth over hers, feasting on her sweet and welcoming lips.
She tasted like the storm. Wild and wet. Wave after wave of passion washed over him. And he never wanted the deluge to end.
Jenefer felt like she was drowning in Morgan’s embrace. And yet she would willingly die in his arms, just to feel the desire flowing from his lips to hers.
She clutched at his clothing, willing him to come closer, to mold his body against hers, to delve deeper into her mouth with his delicious tongue.
They kissed as if they battled, straining against each other, grunting with effort, attacking, retreating, and attacking again.
Despite the storm raging within and around them, drenching their clothing and soaking their skin, a molten heat built at her very core. Warmth sparked in her heart. Smoldered through her veins. Enflamed her senses and brought her body roaring to life.
Blind and deaf, aware of only each other, they might have easily become lost in the maelstrom of their emotions.
But in the next instant, a flash lit up the sky, and a crack of thunder split them apart.
His eyes smoldered into hers as his chest heaved with fervor.
Breathless, she raised trembling fingers to her lips.
He glanced up at the sinister clouds and then reached out to clasp her by the waist, lifting her over the low wattle fence. He took her hand and loped toward the shelter of the stables, pulling her along with him.
The stables were abandoned except for two cart horses. The stable lads had likely gone into the keep, out of the storm.
In one of the empty, hay-sweet stalls, Morgan hauled her into his arms, swooping down on her mouth again. His fingers rasped down her cheek and along her throat. His knuckles collected the droplets of rain on her bosom. With a lusty growl, he slipped her kirtle off her shoulder.
“God, I want ye, Jenefer,” he breathed between kisses.
“I want you as well,” she said, gasping.
She threaded her fingers through his wet locks, cocking his head to twist her frantic lips across his. Her body burned with craving. Her soul ached for him.
But even as they engaged in blissful sensual combat, Jenefer warred with her conscience. Like a loyal guard, her damned honor stepped in to raise a shield against what she wanted most.
In her heart of hearts, she knew the truth. Nothing good could come of this. No matter how much she cared for Morgan, no matter how deeply he touched her, the yearning she felt was bittersweet.
She dreamed of an impossible conquest. Longed for something she could never have. Theirs was a cursed love, star-crossed and hopeless.
As long as Lady Alicia lived, Morgan belonged to her. Nothing on heaven or earth could change that.
Neither she nor Morgan were foolish enough to sacrifice their integrity, their fealty, or their honor for a moment’s pleasure.
Still, resisting the Highlander was ha
rder than defying the ocean’s current. It was so much easier to float along on the thrilling wave of desire surrounding her.
But she had to stop this before it led them both to ruin.
“Nay,” she rasped out, breaking free of their kiss.
Morgan’s beautiful eyes were glazed with yearning. She had to look away, lest she be drawn back into his whirlpool of lust.
“Nay,” she repeated, lowering her head and closing her eyes against temptation. “We mustn’t.”
“Why?” he murmured, stepping toward her again.
She placed a hand on his chest to stop him. “You know why.”
After an interminable moment, his heaving chest sank. She glanced up then and saw his expression change from desire to disappointment. Her heart broke as she experienced the same emotions.
When his face fell and he withdrew, nodding at her with a clenched jaw and somber acceptance, she wanted to weep.
They watched in silent separation as the downpour diminished to a drizzle.
Meanwhile, Jenefer’s eyes welled with their own warm rain as she thought about the future. She knew she couldn’t remain at Creagor. It was sheer torture to be so close to Morgan and not to be able to touch him, to kiss him, to make love to him.
As for Miles, if she spent one more day with the babe—smelling his soft scent, snuggling his warm neck, peering down at his precious smiling face—she would die of heartbreak when she left.
First thing on the morrow, she decided, she’d steal away. She’d be violating her oath not to flee. But sometimes honor demanded difficult decisions. Better she should leave and break her knight’s vows than stay and make Morgan break his marriage vows.
Chapter 59
Alicia shuddered from the cold and turned her face up to the roiling clouds, letting the rain pelt her bruised face. Fate must be smiling on her indeed, to create a foul storm just as she emerged from the trees that bordered Edward’s castle.
When the people of Firthgate saw her stagger into the keep—as wet as a drowned rat and shivering, her face still marred by injuries—her pathetic appearance would doubtless move them to mercy.
The English would never suspect she’d been the one to slay their lord.
And when she told them her story—that she’d been snatched from the keep by savage Highlanders who’d crossed the border, that they’d murdered Edward and her midwife Godit, that they’d taken her prisoner—they would readily believe it.
She’d name her abductor.
She’d disclose his location.
And she’d tell the English that the keep where the Highlanders were staying was ill-prepared for war.
No English soldier worth his spurs could resist such a prize. She’d bring them a perfectly good excuse to attack a poorly defended Scottish holding.
In exchange, her rewards would be threefold.
She’d absolve herself of Edward’s murder.
She’d punish Morgan for choosing that bloody wench over her.
And she’d earn admiration and respect from the English for her part in delivering to them a Border castle claimed by the Scots.
Once she was rid of Morgan, she’d find out who stood to inherit Edward’s holding. It would be a simple matter to court a new lover, to seduce her way into the bedchamber of the new lord.
As it turned out, her plan worked even better than she expected.
The new lord was Edward’s hotheaded brother, Roger. Not only was Roger enraged by Edward’s death, but he was eager to avenge it. When Alicia presented him vengeance on a silver platter, he gathered his army at once to launch an assault on Creagor.
By the time they crossed the border into the Scottish woods, the rain had stopped. By the time they reached Creagor, it was dark. They made a hasty camp in the haven of the forest, planning to attack in the morning.
Alicia had insisted Roger take her along, ostensibly to be his guide and to gain him easy entrance to the castle. But as she peered through the trees at the stately keep that would soon fall to ruin, she thought about Morgan and his cold countenance when he’d refused her in favor of that conniving wench.
He wouldn’t be so indifferent to her now. Not when she brought with her the new lord who’d come to seize his castle. Morgan deserved as much. And she couldn’t wait to see his face. In fact, she wouldn’t miss it for the world.
The castle was still slumbering when Jenefer stole from the nursery bed.
It was better to leave now.
Before Miles woke to tempt her with his irresistible grin.
Before she had to explain anything to Bethac. Or argue with Feiyan. Or face Morgan’s despair.
It was bad enough she had to reckon with her own.
Even after all the tears she’d spent last night, her eyes welled as she thought about the mac Giric clan.
To think she’d imagined Highlanders to be wild savages, vicious and brutal, who ate live rodents and bartered away their own children.
Never had she met a man who cared so tenderly for his child. As for Bethac, her gruffness hid the softest heart. And the archers she’d helped to train were patient and hard-working, the best apprentices she could hope for.
She knew if she delayed to bid them farewell, she might never leave.
Tiptoeing to the window, she peered out the shutters. The stars were invisible, obscured by a blanket of cloud that hung all the way to the ground. But the night had turned from coal black to iron gray. Soon the bakers would arise to warm the ovens for bread.
She would be gone before they woke.
Just as she turned away to take her cloak from the hook on the wall, she saw a movement in the mist, between the trees. She froze, staring hard at the spot.
After a moment, when nothing changed, she decided it must have been an owl or another animal on a late night hunt.
She started to close the shutters when she saw the motion again. Withdrawing into the shadows, Jenefer watched with astonishment as a pale figure emerged from the fog.
It couldn’t be.
Alicia had returned.
Jenefer’s heart plummeted.
She’d been so certain the woman was gone forever.
Surely Alicia didn’t believe Morgan would take her back. Surely Morgan wouldn’t consider forgiving her.
Yet, as she watched Alicia creep across the frost-rimed grass toward the gates, Jenefer had her doubts.
Morgan might be big and brave and brawny. A formidable warrior with a heavy targe and a thick cotun.
But Jenefer knew his true fatal flaw. Inside that armor beat a heart full of honor and compassion. Morgan would sooner cut off his own hand than harm his wife and the mother of his child. No matter how much she deserved it. He wasn’t so foolish as to throw caution to the winds. But his soft heart might leave him open to attack.
Someone had to watch his back.
The guards had been warned. They were not to let Alicia through the gates. But they’d surely alert Morgan of her return. And he’d go down to meet her.
Jenefer intended to be there when he did.
Miles began to stir fitfully in his sleep, as if he could sense his cruel mother was near. Before he could wake the others, Jenefer lifted him from his cradle and soothed him back to slumber against her breast.
Then, holding fast to the precious babe and peering through the crack of the nursery door, she watched for a messenger.
She didn’t have to wait long before young Danald knocked on Morgan’s door. But instead of following the lad downstairs, Morgan headed toward the nursery. Jenefer barely had time to retreat from the door before he came through it.
Startled to see her awake, he stopped short.
She hugged Miles close, wary of Morgan’s intentions. “What are you going to do?”
“Give me my son,” he replied.
“Nay.”
His brows rose in surprise, then lowered. “Give him to me.”
“Don’t do this, Morgan.”
Cicilia and Bethac, disturbed by the no
ise, began to stir.
“What is it ye think I’m doin’?” he asked.
“Don’t give him to her,” Jenefer said, clinging to the babe. “Don’t give Miles to that madwoman.”
From her pallet, Cicilia gasped. “Ye wouldn’t give the bairn to Alicia?”
“What? Alicia?” Bethac shook the cobwebs from her head. “He’s not that foolish. Ye’re not that foolish, m’laird. Right?”
Morgan frowned, no doubt irritated that he had to explain himself. “Nay. I’m not completely witless. I’m not givin’ him away. But Alicia is at the gates. And she’s his mother. She deserves to say one last farewell.”
The three women exchanged meaningful glances, probably thinking the same thing.
Bethac said it aloud. “I don’t trust her, m’laird. Neither should ye.”
“I don’t,” he said, “which is why I won’t let her within the walls.” He straightened with pride. “And I’ll be the one holdin’ Miles. No one will protect him like I will.”
Jenefer was somewhat placated by his answer. And she couldn’t help but notice he’d called his son Miles. He might think Alicia deserved to say goodbye, but he no longer considered the babe hers.
“Take your claymore,” Jenefer blurted.
Morgan arched a mocking brow, doubtless considering it a ridiculous notion to arm himself against a wisp of a wench like Alicia. He reached out and spoke with gentle insistence. “Give me my son.”
Plagued by misgiving, Jenefer could nonetheless think of no reasonable argument to prevent him. She reluctantly handed Miles to his father.
As soon as the door closed behind him, the worried chatter began.
Cicilia clasped a hand to her bosom. “Do ye think he’ll keep Miles safe?”
Bethac patted her arm. “I know he’ll try.”
“But will he succeed?” Jenefer said, biting her nail.
“What are we to do?” Cicilia said, sniffling.
“There’s naught we can do. Morgan is the bairn’s father,” Bethac said, struggling to her feet. “But I’ve got a bad feelin’ about this. I don’t trust Alicia.”
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